Apathy
by The Nightingale's Song
Summary: One interpretation of what may have happened had Sweeney not killed Mrs. Lovett. A diluted Sweenet pairing. No fluff.
1. Flee

_A/N: _I won't lie. This is my first Sweeney fic and I'm a bit nervous about its reception. That being said, I didn't write this story because I was displeased with the end of the film (my introduction to the fandom); conversely, I rather like the ending. However, I couldn't stop toying with the notion of what might have happened had Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd been denied the mercy of death and been forced to carry on; what follows is but one interpretation of such a turn of events. The pairing is a sad, one-sided Sweenet, more of a suggestion or façade than a true pairing; it is not fluff. The action picks up directly after Sweeney realizes he has killed Lucy. Please enjoy.

* * *

_APATHY_

_1. Flee_

_Lucy…_

He was a fool for forgetting how the perfectly auspicious could turn remarkably deplorable in seconds; a perfect dolt for forgetting how easily one you trust can suddenly turn to be your worst enemy. Sweeney knelt over the still-warm body of his wife—a body already hurt and crippled when long before he'd encountered it, but one he'd single-handedly broken in the end. How had he failed to notice that beneath the filthiness, the hair was that perfect yellow; that beneath the grime, her skin was the rosy pale he'd once known so well—how had he failed to notice that beneath the convincing exterior of a crazed hag, his Lucy had dwelled, just waiting for him to notice?

He'd disappointed her. He'd failed her—worse, he'd betrayed her. He'd—

His stream of consciousness was broken by Mrs. Lovett's incessant, somewhat frenzied explanation of her inexcusable act. Sweeney rose sharply from the ground, a new yet familiar notion flowing through his veins and displacing his sorrow: the need for revenge.

Her eyes shined in the light of the fire from the bake-oven. An irrepressible fear was reflected in them, so near to the surface, so tangible. He nearly smiled with gratification. She was fearful? Excellent. She deserved nothing more. He advanced.

"Everything I did, I swear, I thought it was only for the best!" she pleaded with him, retreating as he drew nearer and nearer to her. "Please believe me!" He half-believed she would begin to sob at this juncture. He smirked in disgust at the very notion.

"Ah, Mrs. Lovett," he said with a false civility that nearly surprised even him. "There's nothing to fear. As you've told me repeatedly, the past is in the past." She stopped backing away, lulled by the faux calm of his tone. "What's dead is dead," he added with a certain finality.

"Oh, Mr. T," she said, breathless, almost disbelievingly. "Do you mean it?"

"Oh, yes," he whispered, drawing her into his arms, backing her slowly—_slowly_, so as not to alarm her—toward the contained inferno of the bake-oven. "Life is for the alive, my dear." He locked-in, savoring the moment: the complete trust and joy on her face, the warmth of the flames, so near now, the smell of the Judge's blood that permeated the bake-house, and then—

An urgent, discourteous knock on the door. A booming, "Police. Open up!"

He stopped backing her up, startled by the abrupt noise, the harshness of their tones. He wondered if it was true, so fogged was his reality, anymore. But Mrs. Lovett stiffened in his arms and paled, her eyes flicking to the bolted door, then back to Sweeney.

"We have to get out of here," she whispered urgently, fearfully. Without pausing for his approval or giving a moment's hesitation, she squirmed from his grip, grabbed his blood-soaked hand, and dragged him through the manhole, replacing the cover once they'd both slithered through the portal.

In silence, he trailed along behind her, yanking his hand away when she reached for it, urging him to go faster. He was delirious, confused. What had happened to the plan? Now, his revenge on everyone who'd ever done him harm was meant to be obtained. Now, he'd imagined he'd be calm, satiated, perhaps calmly sipping a tumbler of gin or helping Mrs. Lovett dispose of the bodies. But instead, he ran for his life in the grimy sewers of London, being led by the woman who had perhaps wronged him in the worst way possible.

Why did she still live? Why was she still cognizant as he suffered the pain and anguish of her lies? A new notion crossed his mind. He could so easily grab her neck and choke the life from her now; he could drown her sorry head in the murky sewer water—neither were really his style, but in the bigger picture, justice would be served. How remarkably easy it would be to extinguish her—

She turned to him suddenly, eyes wide, chest heaving. "Mr. T, what shall we do?" Her voice was so small, so lost, so helpless, he was immediately disarmed. Was this the Mrs. Lovett, he wondered, who was always so strong? Was this the fierce, practical woman who had made it her duty to take care of him, who had, on several occasions, steered him adroitly from meeting disaster? She was asking for his help, yearning for his guidance? Sweeney slumped.

Something in the pitifulness of her, the yearning for protection and guidance in her wide brown eyes extinguished every molecule of bloodlust in him. He could not hate this woman. She was lonely, frightened, lost, perhaps even beautiful, in a way—so like his Lucy…

"Mr. T?"

But she was not Lucy.

"Mr. T?" A note of panic had entered her tone. Her life seemed to depend on his response.

"Carry on a bit longer," he replied hollowly, in clipped words. "Pop out into the street. Apprehend a carriage. Ride it to the coast."

"To the coast?" The sudden hope in her eyes devastated him.

"Yeah. Might as well find some place by the sea."


	2. Plan

_2. Plan_

Sweeney sat passively on the small bed of their hotel room as Mrs. Lovett twittered about, asking him just what he supposed they would do, where they would go, and how they would pay for it.

One more throat had been slight he previous night in order to steal the carriage that had taken them as far as the coast. They'd rode all night, finally reaching a small town just outside of Brighton by morning, where they'd located a dingy hotel. Having scraped together enough from Sweeney's purse as well as that of the dispatched cab driver and what was left of Pirelli's, they'd paid the innkeeper enough for a night's stay and used the rest to buy a bit of breakfast and a few other essential products. Mrs. Lovett had been temporarily mollified by the sight of the beautiful British sea. Only now, as the sun was setting on its horizon, was she beginning to worry.

"Mr. T," she said sharply, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes." Flatly.

"So where will we find the means to keep staying here? I mean, it's cheap as inns go, but it ain't that cheap. And aside from that, what of food? What of clothes? Me dress'll go to rags; me hair'll become a regular rat's den."

If he'd cared at all, he would have given a chuckle at this point.

Suddenly, she seemed to stiffen, as if commanding herself to expel any foolishness and actually think about the problem at hand. "Mr. Todd," she said gravely, "we're used to being our own bosses. But for now, I think we should have to set out in this little town and try to find someone to work for. We've both got skills to offer; I'm sure we could find someplace to work, build up a bit of savings, rent out a room someplace, eventually buy a little cottage, right?"

He said nothing. Her brow furrowed in frustration. "Or maybe I'm the only one who cares what'll become of us," she spat bitterly, turning from him.

He sighed, supposing this was his cue to deny her statement. But he had hardly the heart to do so. Instead, he said, "Mrs. Lovett, you spend entirely too much time worrying about things. Who cares what'll happen in the future? For all we know, perhaps we haven't one."

She turned back to him, suddenly eager to soothe once more. She was so loyal, even now, her annoyance with him so impermanent. "Mr. T, don't be so morbid." She knelt before him, attempting to look into his eyes, but he looked down. "I won't let us just fade away. We'll be just fine. Look. I wanted to save this for an emergency, but…" She dug in her bodice, pulling out a lavender purse Sweeney did not recognize. "I have half the profits of the pie shop in this purse," she said quietly. "Last night, before we left, I put it in here. I was intending to go and purchase some new equipment for me kitchen the next day." She waited for his reaction; there was none. "Mr. T," she said, a bit strained, "there's enough in here for a month's rent of a flat, I'm certain."

Finally, he met her eyes, compelled by the implore in her tone. He saw how deeply she craved a reaction; how desperately she wanted him to acknowledge what happy news this was and how much he wanted to settle in a flat with her. He sighed. It reminded him of Lucy, the expectancy in her tone whenever she told him something mildly surprising about her day or something Johanna had done. He'd always indulged her.

"Good," he said quietly, throwing her a bone. "That's just fine."

Her smile warmed some distant crevice of his heart. She patted his shoulder before straightening up. "I suppose I'll set off to look for some work tomorrow, then. But Mr. T?" She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him.

"What?" he asked faintly.

"It'll be a bit suspicious if we rent a flat, being unmarried and all…Who knows? The owner may even object."

No response.

"I mean," she continued gingerly, "we might have a bit of an easier time if we say we _are _married…Or even actually get married, so we can keep nice and honest." This last bit was slightly rushed, a bit unnaturally phrased and emphasized.

He considered this, somewhat put off by her plainness. He opened his mouth to respond with a flat "no," but stopped to consider her proposition. Before, marriage had transformed his life from mundane to magical. Could it happen again? Dare he hope…?

He scorned himself for having such hopes. _I'll marry her, _he thought, _for the sake of simplicity. Surely she won't stop nagging me 'til I do. _

Slowly, he replied, "Perhaps that would be for the best."

She fought not to smile, turning back to him. "That settles it, then," she said briskly, unconsciously wiping her hands on her bodice. "I'll try and find a nice little chapel tomorrow, while I'm at it. No big ceremony, of course, and no dress for me. Just the formalities." She was trying so hard, he saw, to sound detached and no-nonsense, but she could barely contain her joy. He felt indifferently amused at this façade.

How could he have the power to bring her such joy, he wondered idly, when all his life he'd both received and dealt so much pain? How could his mere presence inspire such happiness in her? The notion was foreign and a bit frightening to him. Lucy had been content with their life, but, he was reluctant to admit, she'd never seemed particularly enamored with him or their life together. Mrs. Lovett, on the other hand, seemed absolutely smitten, and positively jubilant at the thought of life with him.

Then again, he realized he shouldn't be so surprised. Mrs. Lovett had done a great deal for Sweeney. He gazed at the woman with her unhealthily pale complexion; messy, frizzy hair that he cringed at the sight of; her gloved hands; her slim but sturdy build, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude. She'd provided him a place to stay and carry out his revenge; food to partake of; the constant invitation of company (which he rarely accepted); a method of disposal for the bodies he accumulated; tolerance rather than disgust or fear at his habits. Many a time, he admitted somewhat reluctantly, her practicality and coolness had neutralized his hot temper and passion just in time to save him from disaster. Despite her dreadful lie, he owed her something.

Even so, Sweeney's heart ached at the thought of Mrs. Lovett's betrayal. Perhaps, though, he thought, her intentions were indeed noble. Perhaps—

Her brisk voice, as always, cut short his train of thought. "Right. Well, it's getting late. We should get some rest." She eyed the single bed that Sweeney sat on. "You can have the bed," she said graciously. "I'll make a place on the ground. No need to get too cozy; we ain't marrieds just yet." She didn't sound too enthusiastic about this point.

"No," he said somewhat sharply, rising suddenly from the bed.

"Mr. T?" she asked uncertainly, halting her process of pulling bobby-pins from her hair.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

"Oh, Mr. T, you must be aching from steering that carriage all night long. Really—"

"Mrs. Lovett," he said quietly, but with an unfamiliar yet powerfully persuasive appeal that surprised her. "You take the bed."

"Well, alright," she said after a moment. "It's up to you, of course."


	3. Brood

_A/N:_ Thank you for all the hits and reviews. I've noticed several people have added my story to their alert/favorites list—thank you so much. If you could drop a review, that would be lovely, as well. Please enjoy.

* * *

_3. Brood_

The room was simple. Nothing in it aside from a vanity, full-sized bed, hearth, and a window overlooking the street below. The walls were whitewashed and unadorned with pictures. Despite its plainness, Mrs. Lovett was pleased with its affordability and succinct functionality; Sweeney really couldn't have cared whether the room was plain and cheap or luxurious and expensive.

Presently, Sweeney sat atop the sheet on the bed, the blue bed spread having been laid out on the floor, where he was sleeping for the time being. "Only proper," Mrs. Lovett had half-heartedly insisted. Sweeney supposed so. The woman was currently out working at the tavern she'd been lucky enough to find a vacant post at after a few days of job searching. "S'pose it'll be perfect for me. I'll be serving the customers. Get to run me big mouth all day long."

Sweeney, on the other hand, had been unenthusiastic at the prospect of work, something Mrs. Lovett picked up on rather quickly and hadn't pushed. "Oh, just leave it to me, love," she'd said comfortingly, following her proclamation of employment. "You can just stay here and mind the room. I''ll take care of everything…"

It was obvious that she was treading lightly after his discovery of her folly, for fear that he should kill her, or worse, leave her. In a different time, he knew, she would have thought nothing of prodding him senseless until he'd agree to find some new livelihood. But times had changed.

But, to be truthful, Mrs. Lovett's fears were unfounded. Sweeney truly had no intention of killing her and no plans to leave her just yet. It was strange. When he gazed upon the woman who had lied to him about Lucy, where he once would have felt loathing, he felt only a vague indifference tinged with gratitude. It was as if discovery of his wife had sobered his wild thirst for blood and revenge, somehow, had quelled the fire of his insane passion. Or perhaps the reality of killing someone so close to him—someone he'd loved above all else and someone he thought he could never see again—had froze into crystal clarity the harmfulness of murder, the uselessness of revenge. Perhaps Mrs. Lovett had been right all along: he should have waited.

Many times in his musings, he wondered whether Sweeney Todd had passed from him, leaving only a sad, broken Benjamin Barker in his wake. But even Benjamin Barker had contained some passion within him, a fire fueled by love for his family. This—whatever he was now—had no love, no passion, no fire, only sorrow and emptiness. The desires of Benjamin Barker and Sweeney Todd had differed, of course, but they both had possessed desires. This man had none, longed for nothing. It was strange, Sweeney thought, to feel this way. He'd never felt so…cold.

This sole hope on his horizon—one he constantly pushed away for fear that it would only disappoint him—was that marriage would once again bring him solace, reintroduce joy and passion to his life. But even this hope was dim, untrustworthy.

As he rose from the bed, drawing closer to the window to catch a glance of the gray English sea, he heard Mrs. Lovett let herself into the room.

"Hello, love," she sang out.

He turned to her. She look tired, her hair even more disheveled than usual and her face weary, but she seemed perfectly happy to be coming home to him. She clasped a package at her side.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding to it, his interest just falling short of mild.

"Oh," she said, looking down at it, somewhat sheepish, "It's a nightgown. I figure it ain't in good form for me to keep sleeping in me chemise. Gets a bit nippy, anyway. And plus, since we're getting married soon and all…" She trailed off uncertainly. "I had plenty of money left over, too. Rent ain't due till the end of the month, and who would've guessed how cheap a wedding is when you don't have guests or a reception?"

Sweeney shrugged.

"I could get you something, if you want," she continued. "I could get you a nice pyjama set from the little shop near the tavern. Not too expensive. Thank God the landlord lets me use the wash basin, or else your shirt would still have all that blood on it." No response. "So do you want me to pick you up a set?" she asked, setting the package on the vanity and fiddling with her hair.

"No," he replied flatly.

She turned to him, seemingly unsettled by something, but by what, he wasn't certain. His tone? His apparent emptiness? His lack of excitement for their impending wedding?

"Mr. Todd…" she began tenderly, then trailing off. She was perplexed, as if she had a great deal to say but no idea where to begin. She moved to stand before him, tilting her head back a bit to gaze into his eyes. "You know, you don't have to marry me…" she whispered, averting her gaze to the window, her eyes finding the slate, barely moving sea. "You don't owe me nothing. You don't have to do me no favors…I mean, we could just live here together as friends, or maybe business partners again, eventually." She paused. "Or you could tell me to get out of your life and leave you alone. I'd do it, you know." She looked down. "I'd do most anything for you."

"I know, Mrs. Lovett," he replied softly, not particularly desiring to address her other points. He turned from her. What was he hoping to gain by this marriage, he wondered?

_She's done so much for you. The least you can do is provide her a bit of happiness._

_But she betrayed you. Does she deserve it?_

"Do any of us deserve anything?" he whispered aloud.

"Mr. T…" she said, stepping forward and placing a hand on his back. He whirled around, gently taking her hand and returning it to her side. He gazed with a detached curiosity at the woman before him. What did he need from her now that his ravenous desire for revenge had subsided and any inking of passion had been dispelled from his being? Was he hoping her caring for him would restore the man he used to be, that her incessant chatter and indomitable spirit would return some part of him to normal? He supposed it could be that.

But presently, as she gazed at him, concern filling her eyes, he could only think of how they were not blue, but brown; how her hair was a lowly chocolate and curly instead of that angelic yellow and smooth. Her lips were chapped and thin; _her _lips were pink and full.

She was not Lucy. But perhaps she could still bring him happiness?

He pushed the thought from his mind. The marriage was a repayment of debts—nothing more.

"When did you say the priest was first available?"

She smiled faintly. "Wednesday, he said."

"Let's make the appointment."

"But Mr. T, I'm not sure you're quite well—"

"I'm fine." Decisive, but not forceful. "No sense in putting it off."

This statement seemed to appeal to her, for she smiled. "S'pose you're right about that. I shall make the appointment tomorrow, then."

He gazed out the window once more. "Excellent…"


	4. Repay

_A/N:_ Thank you all, again, for the hits and lovely reviews. I feel it prudent to mention that this humble little fic is nearing its end. I'm surprised at how little time it took to post it compared to the time it took to compose it. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.

* * *

_4. Repay_

The wedding, much like the room, much like whoever Sweeney Todd had turned to be, was nondescript and largely emotionless. The reception was nonexistent and the ceremony was nearly likewise. Sweeney wore the same outfit he'd departed from London in, though Mrs. Lovett—Mrs. Todd, presumably, now—had washed it at least three times to make totally certain that no scent of blood lingered in his shirt's fibers. She—his new wife?—had resisted the lure of a wedding gown and worn the same dress she wore to work each day.

Sweeney had half-expected her to weep at some point in the short ceremony, but consistent with her cool temper, her eyes remained dry, though she was beaming throughout the priest's mumblings, casting him intermittent, side-long glances. He supposed she looked pretty, despite the commonplace of her dress. He didn't really notice, though.

When the ceremony concluded, he pressed a chaste, dry kiss to her mouth, just a formality, like the rest of the wedding. Even so, at this juncture, as Sweeney had somewhat anticipated, her eyes brimmed with tears, though they failed to overflow. He remained impassive, even as she took his hand and walked him down the aisle that ran straight down the empty chapel, away from the priest as man and wife.

The cool night air was refreshing to him, the draft caressing his fingers when Mrs. Lovett let go of his hand. In contrast to London, the small street was quiet, all tucked away in their homes, the light of candles and fireplaces bleeding through the drawn curtains.

"Let's go to the shore, love?" said Mrs. Lovett, suddenly filled with energy and wonder. Her eyes were wide. Maybe she was beautiful. "Take a nice stroll by the sea? Calm the nerves?" Though she spoke in fragmented questions, she seemed to require no validation from him, as she grabbed his hand once more, leading him toward the lulling sound of waves crashing relentless against sand.

The journey was short. Soon, they stood before the sea. Mrs. Lovett held her skirts bunched in her hand, coming so close to where the water met the sand that her boots were nearly ruined. She stared with longing into the the midnight-colored mass, so curiously alive yet simultaneously constant.

"Not exactly as I planned," she said after a moment, turning to Sweeney. "Pictured us in the daytime, for one thing, the sun shining. Us sitting on the beach together on a towel, Toby playing nearby." Mrs. Lovett's voice broke. It was the first time she'd mentioned the boy since they'd departed from London. A moment passed before she continued.

"Us holding hands, probably, maybe going into the water together." She smiled softly. "Guess that was a bit foolish of me. See what happens when I loose me head?" He didn't respond, only regarded her thoughtfully; she nervously wiped her hands on her bodice. "Well, this'll do just fine, after all. I couldn't really ask for anything else." She took a step closer to him, placing her hand on his chest.

"Mrs. Lovett?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse from his lack of talking.

"Love?" She didn't seem to mind his incorrect title for her.

"I feel nothing."

Her eyes brimmed once more, this time a single tear trickling down her cheek. "Why not? What more can I give with you?"

It was that helplessness again, that longing for guidance.

"Nothing," he replied, softening. "It's not up to you."

"Who's it up to?" she asked, somewhat frantic. "Who else can help you?"

He didn't answer, instead placing his hand on the nape of her cool, bare neck and guiding her back toward the town. "Say goodbye to the sea for now, love," he said, slowly beginning to walk. "Time to turn in."


	5. Surrender

_A/N:_ This chapter contains sex, though it is far from smutty or even very descriptive. However, if this offends you, feel free to skip past it, though I don't recommend that you skip this entire chapter. That being said, please enjoy.

* * *

_5. Surrender_

He sat on the bed, watching her ready herself. It was endearing, almost comical, to silently observe what he'd always regarded as the secrets of feminine preparation. No privacy existed here, really, and she didn't seem to mind him watching her fiddle with her hair and pinch her cheeks until they reddened, though she had asked him to step out when she'd changed into her nightgown (which to him seemed a waste of time, but he was in no mood to argue).

He'd done nothing to ready himself, felt no inclination to do so. When she finally stepped away from the vanity, he was still fully dressed, still smelled of the sea and sand. As she wrapped her arms around him, he found she smelled of lavender—how, he had no inkling.

Perhaps not all of the secrets had been divulged just yet.

Easily enough, he permitted her to kiss him. Her kiss was far from the sweetness of Lucy's; rather, it was intense, needy, driving, as if her sanity depended on the embrace. From there, tangible details lost their allure. As she undressed, he slipped entirely into the world of his mind, wildly noting how her body differed from Lucy's, how much more gaunt she was, her skin a milky pale instead of a warm, rosy one. He was driven mad by her forwardness, her lack of passivity; she was completely confident as she caressed his chest in a way Lucy never would have.

_Lucy…Lucy…_ he thought as she writhed with pleasure beneath him.

_You killed her. _You _killed her. Where did that revenge get you? _

_Nowhere._

_What has it made you feel?_

_Happy, for a bit…Now, nothing. Absolutely nothing._

_There is nothing anymore!_

She peaked, moaning into his ear. He rolled away from her without climaxing. It was a moment before she joined him, a sleepy smile on her face.

"Y'alright, love?" she asked, her hand resting on his stomach, joy of the afterglow permeating her tone, though not entirely displacing a concerned curiosity.

"Fine, Mrs. Lovett," he lied, not looking at her. He would not spoil this moment. He would let her have her peace.

"Mr. T," she said, kissing his chin, "you know I love you."

"I know."

She smiled. That was good enough for her. She pressed a handful of small kisses to his neck and one more to his lips before rolling away from him, wrapping the covers around her, and falling into a satiated slumber.

Once he was certain she slept, he rose from the bed, dressed, ascertaining that his razor lay safely in his pocket. He pressed a final, dry kiss to Mrs. Lovett's lips, gazing momentarily with indifference on her dozing frame, before taking his leave of the room.

The night held an penetrating chill that he appreciated, in a way: the perfect accompaniment for the devastation that flooded his heart as realization he'd fought so hard to keep at bay invaded, pillaged, raped his mind.

There really wasn't anything for him any longer. Johanna was gone. Revenge was taken. And Lucy…he'd killed her, and she'd left in her wake a space that neither Mrs. Lovett nor any other women could possibly fill.

The notion that a second marriage, a new chance at live, was delusional, he realized now, for always, he'd compare her to Lucy. Always he'd find her inadequate. Always he'd feel nothing when she touched him, loved him. Perhaps that was all he deserved.

He arrived, somehow, at the same shore he'd stood at only hours before, a happy bride at his side, a bride full of expectation. Now, he was alone. He'd been alone for some time. And soon she would be, too. Soon he would pass his agony along to her—but even that could not stop him.

He pulled the razor from his pocket, unsheathed it, feeling no familiar exhilaration or demented joy—he felt nothing, really, as he took in the glinting reflection of the pristine blade that shone in the moonlight. In his sacred custom, he carefully inspected the blade, making certain of its absolute sharpness, readiness.

He lowered it, taking a moment to gaze out into the sea. The glint of the moonbeams against the restless waters was comforting, familiar. The sea was dark now, mysterious—not how Mrs. Lovett had envisioned it. Little was.

Funny how she never let go of those notions, though.

He removed his jacket and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt.

Was it weak? Was he a coward?

It scarcely mattered any longer.

The razor was so keen, so honed, that the pain hardly registered as he dragged the angelic blade across the tender skin of his inner forearm, starting at the crook, proceeding vertically. It was but a mere graze, he thought; he increased the pressure. Pain shot up his arm. He smiled for the first time in days.

What a wonder, the ruby rivulets of blood that sprung immediately from the wound—brilliant, beautiful, heedless of the mundane, grim reality, just as it always was. He was amazed that such beauty flowed within him just beneath his waxen, wane surface, that it always had.

Dizziness occurred to him. He sunk gracefully to his knees, coming to rest on the sand moist from the caress of the oceanic waves, parallel to the sea. As the tide advanced, meeting his body, soaking his trouser-leg, he moved his right arm, still clutching the razor, well above him, toward the town, away from the ocean and her purifying waves. This blood would never leave the blade.

* * *

_A/N:_ Not quite over yet, loves... 


	6. Relinquish

_A/N_: It's over, pets. Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, hits, and favorites. Hope you enjoy this final installment and see you all next time (if there is, indeed, to be one).

* * *

_6. Relinquish_

Mrs. Lovett had found the bed empty bedside her, not even a warm indentation on the mattress to provide some comfort, some promise of a return. Throwing on the same old dress, the same old boots, she'd pursued him, plunged into the night. Bewilderment brought her to the side of the sea. Her thoughts always flew there.

And strange that's where he'd chosen to die: the place where she'd set all her dreams.

_So this is what he felt? _she wondered. _This nothing?_

The blood that flowed freely from the gash on his forearm mingled with the ocean water, turning it a gentle scarlet, a hue she almost admired. If possible, he was paler than before. The blood—the brilliance, the life—gone from him, he was a ghost. She realized, somewhere in her consciousness, that he'd been that pale since they'd left London.

A few more minutes, she knew, and the tide would come far enough onto the shore to cover him, to take him away. Perhaps she'd let it. What else was there to do?

She began to turn from him, feeling no inclination to touch him, to try to shake him back to life. He'd been gone. As she turned back toward the humble town, a lifetime of sleepless nights awaiting her, she couldn't help but notice how, among all the pale and nothing, the razor shone, demanded her attention if for but a moment. Blood coated its blade. It was vibrant, fresh.

It was beautiful.

_Fin._


End file.
